


Not What He Says

by ShadowAndPurgatory



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: AU, Angst, Canon Divergence, Jon is the only one who notices, Martin gets not-themed, canon typical worms in chapter one, i make some jokes, no beta we die like leitner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-22 15:10:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22484938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowAndPurgatory/pseuds/ShadowAndPurgatory
Summary: During Jane Prentiss’s attack, Martin pulls Sasha out of the way to save Tim AND her. It isn’t funny.
Comments: 33
Kudos: 146





	1. Creation of Tension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of dialogue is pulled directly from the transcripts because I like precision and stuff

“Can you see what’s going on out there?” Sasha asked Martin, whose face was pressed against the small window on the door. 

“Ish. When was the last time we cleaned these doors?” he asked, trying to put a bit of levity into his tone. It didn’t work and just sounded shaky. He glanced back at Jon and Sasha. Jon was sitting on the floor, grimacing in pain while Sasha pulled worms from his leg. Martin brushed a strawberry blond curl out of his eyes.

“What can you see?” Jon asked.

“Worms seem to have backed off a bit,” Martin said, looking outside again. “There’s a few lurking in the corners. Oh, oh hey, there’s the other tape recorder!” 

“Any sign of Prentiss?” Sasha asked cautiously, throwing the worms away. 

Martin looked around a bit. “No, I don’t see her.” He squinted. “ It’s weird, the worms almost seem like they’re... waiting, I think?”

“Waiting? Waiting for what?” Jon asked sharply. Martin could practically hear the eyebrow furrow. 

“I don’t know. Tim, maybe?”

There was the sound of the corkscrew Sasha had been holding clattering to the floor, and Martin turned around. “Oh god!”

“I think he was out at lunch,” Martin said, trying to remember how long Tim usually took to eat. 

“Quick, someone call him!” Sasha said, reaching for her phone. “Tell him not to come back inside!”

Jon shook his head. “There’s no signal in here. We just have to hope he heard the noise.” 

Sasha sighed. “Damn.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Jon fidgeted with the running tape recorder, Sasha rocked back and forth on her heels and toes, and Martin turned around to stare out the window again. 

The silence was broken by Sasha, who curiously asked “Jon, what did you mean by ‘real statements?’”

Martin had to admit that he had been wondering about that as well. 

Jon sighed. “You know what I mean. The ones that have weird wrinkles, or that just seem to have something _solid_ to them. They all have one thing in common.”

“They don’t record digitally,” Sasha finished.

“And we have to use the tape recorder,” Jon said. He sighed again. “At this stage, if it records to my laptop I almost don’t bother. I don’t–”

Martin’s eyes widened. “There! There, there, there! I see him!” Martin tapped the window excitedly.

“What, who?” Jon asked. 

“Tim!” Martin said impatiently. “Tim’s outside!”

Sasha stood next to Martin, peering outside. She groaned. “Oh god, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t see them.”

They both started banging on the glass, shouting. “TIM, LOOK OUT!” Sasha yelled. 

“It’s soundproofed, he can’t hear you!” Jon said. Martin turned around and glared at him. 

Sasha had shoved Martin out of the way. “What is he doing?” she muttered. Tim was walking over to the tape recorder. “No Tim, just run! Leave it alone!” 

Martin began to rock on his heels. “Oh no, no, no, no...”

“Turn around,” Sasha whispered. “Just turn around.”

“Oh god.” From down the hall, Martin could see Jane Prentiss approaching. His stomach churned as he remembered the hundreds of worms, squirming and moving in and out of the holes honeycombing her body. “There she is, there she is.”

“There’s nothing we can do,” Jon muttered distressedly. 

“Ah screw it,” Martin heard Sasha say, and it took only a brief second for the words to sink in. “No, don’t!”

It seemed like Jon realized only a heartbeat after Martin did. “What? Sasha, NO!” he shouted as she opened the door.

Martin didn’t think through what he was doing, he just grabbed Sasha’s arm and tugged her backwards and ran outside. He heard Jon shout something about the tape before he slammed the door shut. “Tim look out!” he shouted.

“Martin?” Tim asked in surprise. 

“Behind you! Run!” Martin shouted pointing at Jane Prentiss. 

Tim turned around. “Oh…”

The sounds of the worms grew louder, and Martin could hear a voice over it. Jane Prentiss’s voice. _“Do you hear their song?”_ she asked slowly. Her voice was the crawling rasp of a thousand things that squirmed in the rot, speaking with neither vocal cords nor the lungs to make them move.

Tim raised a fist like he was going to punch Prentiss. In his panicked state, the thought of Tim trying to stop an army of worms by _throwing a punch_ was so ridiculous that Martim laughed, somewhat hysterically. It was so unbelievably stupid, and _oh dear lord he’s actually gonna do it._

“TIM!” Martin dove, body-slamming Tim into the ground. He stumbled to his feet and began to run, tugging Tim behind him. “Come on, we’ve got to _go!”_

They ran, and Martin could hear the tide of worms behind them. His heart hammered in his chest and he was breathing hard. 

Tim let go of Martin’s hand. “Go get help!” he said. 

Martin nodded and ran down the hall, hoping that Tim would be okay. He saw the fire alarm as he exited the Archives, and pulled it. Hopefully it would get the other institute employees to evacuate. He ran up the stairs, tape recorder in hand, heading for Elias’s office. He threw open the door, panting. 

“Good _lord_ Martin, what happened to you?” Elias asked, frowning in concern.

“I pulled the fire alarm. There are… worms… in the Archives,” Martin panted. “They came out of the walls, and Tim’s probably dead… and we need help.” 

Elias’s gaze fell to the tape recorder. “Could you turn that on?”

Martin clicked it on with a shrug. “Sure.”

“Right, tell me again, please.”

Martin’s green eyes widened. “There’s–there’s no time!”

Elias shrugged. “You brought a tape recorder. I just thought Jon would appreciate as many supplementary recordings as possible. For the record.”

_“Elias.”_

Elias just stared at Martin before continuing. “So... these are the worms the two of you have been going on about?” he asked. 

“Yes, the ones that kept me trapped in my apartment for weeks!” Martin snapped. “The ones that have been terrorizing us for months! Yes, _those_ worms.”

Elias held up his hands. “To be honest I always thought that you two were just... overreacting. Other staff have seen them around, but nobody’s reported any aggressive behaviour or anything like that. I know how you two can be sometimes… Jon puts on a good show, but sometimes I swear he’s worse than the rest of you.”

Martin felt his nose and the tips of his ears heating up in anger. He was certain that they were bright red, but he didn’t care. “Elias, I don’t know what you think about what had been happening, and frankly, I don’t _care_. I just saw some sort of… _worm queen_. Tim is probably dead, Jon and Sasha–”

“Of course,” Elias said. “The fire alarm was a good idea. I replaced the standard fire system with a CO2, but since there’s no fire, we’ll have to set it off manually.”

Martin held up his hands. “Wait. Will this… will this hurt Jon or Sasha?”

“Well I’m no doctor, but I don’t need to be one to tell you that dumping CO2 on someone isn’t typically good for their continued life.” Elias sighed. “I’d rather not have to find a new Archivist so soon after Gertrude, but…”

Martin blanched. 

“It’s your call,” Elias said. “You know the situation best.”

His voice shaking, Martin said, “Yeah, okay. Let’s- let's do it.”

He clicked off the tape recorder.

* * *

Martin hadn’t expected the worms to come in a tidal wave, but when he saw it, all thoughts of anything other than _run get out of here get to safety_ left his mind in an instant, and he took off in the opposite direction. 

In front of him, he could see a sturdy looking door. He flung it open, got inside, and slammed it shut. He looked at his surroundings and his stomach dropped when he realized why the door was so sturdy. This was _Artifact Storage._ He had only been here a few times, but it gave him the creeps every time. 

He clicked on the tape recorder. “Hey Jon. I- uh, I figured you would want this on tape, so, um, yeah. Assuming that you’re still alive, I guess.” Martin fidgeted with his sweater sleeves. “Anyways, what’s happened so far? Um, I pulled the fire alarm, and met up with Elias. We were going to set off the fire suppression system manually, but there was this- this _tidal wave_ of worms, and we got separated. I hope he managed to set off the CO2, but who knows? He could be dead. Everybody could be dead.” 

Martin walked further into the storage room, looking at the objects contained within glass cases. Some were covered by sheets, or trapped within sturdy lockboxes. No matter how hard he tried, Martin couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched, and he was absolutely certain that he wasn’t alone. 

“I’m in Artifact Storage right now. I didn’t specifically choose being in here, but well, you _know_ how sturdy the door is. It’s pretty creepy, but hey, at least there aren’t any worms in here, right?” 

He bumped into something, at looked to see what it was. “Hey, there’s that weird table. I wonder what goes in the hole in the middle?” His eyes traced the complex pattern on it. “You know, you said you thought the pattern was a fractal, but I don’t think... it’s more like a web. I-I said that we should have… gotten rid of… it, but–”

He heard what sounded like footsteps from within the storage room and took a step back. “Jon, I think that somebody’s in here,” he whispered. “Someone who’s not me, I mean.” He stood on the tips of his toes, trying to see whoever (or whatever) it was. 

“Who’s there?” Martin called out, a note of fear creeping into his voice. “Come out! If someone's playing a prank, it’s not safe here!” He took another step back, uneasy. “This isn’t funny!”

Martin saw it for only a moment, and he wished he hadn’t. He screamed, dropping the tape recorder. 

And then it was over. 

He stood up.

“T̷̗͓̲̬̼̫͉̾͜h̸̢̨̯̖̰̹̹̜̉͐̈́i̶̘̘̙̯͉̓́́͌̆s̴͚̟̫̗̅ ̵͓̝͎̮͇͐͋̒̆̅͑̽̕i̴͖̊̈s̵̨͔̱̓̚ń̴̖̻̇͝’̴̨̰̘̈́̆̔͂̀̄̕ͅṱ̷̼͂̾̈́͝͝ ̷̧̣̰͇̙̐̕f̷̮̓u̶̳̭̙̟̱͍̦͆̽͆̋̆̕͘ͅņ̶̛̩̣͓̟͚͉̈́̀̍͝n̶̯̱͌̀͑́̍̂͋ͅy̶̨͙̬͖̝̤̩͌͂͘͝,̷̥̭̀,” he said. He brushed a lock of straight black hair out of his grey eyes. 

“This isn’t funny,” he repeated, laughing at his own joke.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The zalgo text reads “this isnt funny”


	2. Setup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My first goal for writing fic is that i enjoy writing it. My second goal is to swing for the kneecaps.

Jon took a deep breath. “Statement of Sasha James, archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, regarding the invasion by the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss. Statement recorded direct from subject, 29th July 2016. In your own time,” he said, gesturing for her to begin.”

Sasha nodded. “Where do you want me to start? You know what happened after Martin shoved me out of the way to help Tim. Do you want me to start from when we got separated?”

“Yes, that would be best,” Jon said. 

“Okay,” Sasha said. “We were going through the tunnels, yeah? And then the worms came at us, and they were so much faster than they had been before. I took off running, and I swear I thought I heard you guys behind me.” She sighed a bit. “Sorry about ditching you guys,” she apologized. 

Jon held up a hand. “It’s quite all right, Sasha. I just need you to tell me about what happened when you found Gertrude’s body.”

“All right. I was wandering through the tunnels. I think I was getting lost, but I didn’t know how to get less lost. I hadn’t seen any worms for a long while, and I felt like I was getting too far from the Institute.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I _think_ I was under the old Millbank Prison, the one that Tim was telling us about. There was a lot of trash, and it was dusty down there. I was trying to find my way back to the Institute, even though I didn’t know which way ‘back’ was. Then I heard the scream. It was like…” Sasha took a deep breath. “I don’t even know what it was like, but it was the most horrible sound I’d ever heard. That’s when I knew Prentiss was dead.” She paused for a moment. 

“Do you need to take a moment to collect yourself?” Jon asked.

“No, no, I’m fine. The more I tried to get back to the Institute, the more lost I felt,” Sasha said. “I saw a set of stairs that went deeper into the tunnels, but I… I knew that whatever was down those stairs wasn’t something I wanted to see. Eventually, I found a door, and I thought… well, I had _hoped_ that it might be the way out.”

“But instead you found _her_ ,” Jon finished. 

“Yes.” Sasha nodded. “It was a small, square room. Everything was covered in dust, but well, there wasn’t too much in there. No cobwebs. No worms. Just a few cardboard boxes full of old cassette tapes and– and her.” Sasha sucked in a breath. “Gertrude’s body was slumped over in a wooden chair, her mouth hanging open. I didn’t really stay to examine the body. I was scared, and I ran. I found the trapdoor pretty quickly, and I yelled until Martin and Elias opened the door.” Sasha fidgeted with her sleeves. “That’s–that’s it.”

Jon nodded. “Thank you Sasha.” He was silent for a moment. “Could you find the room again?”

Sasha nodded. “I–I think so. The police expect me to, but I could tell that they weren’t too keen on exploring the tunnels.”

Jon took a deep breath. “One last question. How did Gertrude die?”

Sasha frowned. “Well, it was dark, and I only saw the body for a few seconds, but it looked like she was shot. Three times. In the chest.”

“Right.” Jon took a deep breath. “Right, thank you Sasha. Make sure you get some rest.”

Sasha smiled tiredly, standing up. “I will,” she said. She walked over to the door. “Do you… do you want me to send Martin in?”

Jon nodded. “Yes, thank you. Good night, Sasha.”

“Good night Jon. Make sure you take care of yourself,” Sasha said. She laughed a bit. “We don’t want you to follow _too_ closely in Gertrude’s footsteps, hm?”

Jon’s attempt at laughter stuck in the back of his throat and ended up sounding more like a strangled cry than any exclamation of joy. He cleared his throat. “Quite.” He clicked off the tape recorder. Sasha left the office, and Jon was left alone with his thoughts. _Murdered,_ Jon thought. _Gertrude was_ murdered, _and nobody ever knew it._ His head began to spin with all the thoughts and questions, already trying to make connections and hypotheses.

He was so focused on his thoughts that he didn’t even register the door opening, nor did he notice someone coming inside. He didn’t hear the click of the tape recorder as it turned on by itself. He only snapped out of it when someone waved a hand in front of his face. 

“–on? Jon, are you okay?”

Jon blinked a few times, shaking off the proverbial cobwebs. “I’m _fine_ , Martin,” he snapped. “I’m afraid I was a bit lost in–” He stopped when he saw the short, dark–haired person on the other side of the table. Jon blinked a few times, adjusting his glasses in confusion. “Sorry, who are you?” 

The stranger’s brows furrowed as he frowned. “Jon, are you feeling all right?” he asked carefully. “It’s me, Martin.”

Jon stared at him blankly. “Martin…” he trailed off, prompting a surname. 

“Blackwood,” this person who claimed to be Martin finished. “To my knowledge, the only assistant here who goes by Martin? _That_ Martin? Jon, are you _sure_ you’re feeling all right?”

“Yes, I am _quite_ certain that I’m feeling just _fine,”_ Jon said. He stood up, his chair scraping the floor. “And I am _also_ quite certain that _you_ are _not_ Martin Blackwood!” He looked this person up and down. He was wearing Martin’s clothes, but beyond that, he bore very little resemblance to Jon’s tea–loving assistant. For one thing, he was short and built like a string bean, whereas Martin had been tall and built like an ox. His dark shaggy hair hung limp and straight over grey eyes. 

Jon met the eyes of The Person Who Claimed To Be Martin Blackwood, who smiled at him, and Jon felt a chill creep over him. This smile reached his eyes, but it felt _wrong,_ somehow. “Jon,” the stranger said. “Are you sure that you don’t need to rest? It’s–it’s been a long day, and I’m sure you’re tired. I think your mind must be playing tricks on you.” Even his voice was different. It was scratchier and half an octave higher. 

Jon pursed his lips. “No, it’s not.” He shut his eyes for a few seconds. “But let’s get this over with, shall we?” He reached to click on the tape recorder, only to find it already running. “Huh. Statement of…” He glared at the imposter. 

“Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant,” supplied Fake Martin. 

“Yes. Statement of ‘M _artin Blackwood,’_ ” Jon said through gritted teeth, “regarding the invasion of the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss, etcetera, etcetera, _go.”_

Fake Martin took a deep breath. “Right. I was running background checks on Case 0081709 when I heard you and Sasha screaming, so I went to check, and–”

“Yes, I _know_ that much!” Jon said angrily. “What happened after you left to get help?”

“Oh,” Fake Martin said. “Well, I went to get Elias, and I pulled the fire alarm, because I wanted to evacuate everyone. I figured it’d be safer, y’know? Anyways, I got to Elias, and we talked for a bit. We were going to go to save you, but then the worms came, and we got separated somehow. I was in Artifact Storage. It was safe enough.”

Jon laughed dryly. “Never thought I’d hear anyone calling Artifact Storage as ‘safe.’”

Fake Martin shrugged. “Well, neither did I, but here we are. I waited until I heard Jane Prentiss’s scream, and then I went back into the Archives to check on you and Tim. All the worms were dead, and when I saw you and Tim, well, I was certain that you were as well. You were just _lying_ there, but you weren’t moving. You were just lying there, the dead worms still half inside of you. The trap door was open next to you, and there were more dead worms inside. I went over to check your pulses, and you were alive, so I pulled you back to where there was more air, and began to remove the worms.” 

Jon felt queasy. Fake Martin looked at him, an expression of concern on his face. “Are you...are you alright, Jon?”

He took a deep breath. “Yes, it’s just… it’s just a lot.”

Fake Martin nodded. “I get it. You should go home, Jon.”

Jon shook his head. “No. Keep going.”

The man in Martin’s sweater shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He smiled that wrong, bad smile. “Anyways. That’s around the time that Elias showed up with the fire brigade and people wearing hazmat suits. They asked me a bunch of questions and then they checked me for worm marks, but I was fine. They took you and Tim away so I was left alone with Elias.” The dark haired man scratched his head. “We didn’t really talk, but he was giving me this weird look. After an hour or so, we heard shouting from the trap door, and when we opened it, Sasha was yelling about a body.” Fake Martin nodded. “Um, yeah. That’s- that’s about it.”

“Thank you,” Jon said. “Another thing.”

The stranger picked at his fingernails. “Hm?”

“Elias said you had the other tape recorder, but when you gave it back, it was empty.” Jon studied the imposter carefully. “So where’s the tape?”

Fake Martin looked up from his fingernails after a moment, his eyebrows raised. “I dropped the recorder a few times. Must’ve hit the eject button.” He shrugged. 

“Who are you really?” Jon asked, his eyes narrowed. 

“Martin Blackwood. Who else would I be?” 

“You are _not_ Martin,” Jon said through gritted teeth. 

Fake Martin gave him a concerned look. “It’s been a long day, and it’s taking a toll on you.” He stood up.

Jon sighed. “Maybe you’re right,” he said.

“Watch yourself, Jon.”

And then he just… left. Jon didn’t stop him. Flashes of confusion and fear ran through his brain. 

He took a deep breath. “Well then,” he sighed. He cleared his throat. “Gertrude Robinson, the last Archivist at the Magnus Institute, and my predecessor, was murdered. There were no worms to infest her, no strange, ghostly apparitions to warp her mind, or caves to entomb her. She was killed, in the Archives, by someone who used a gun, and that scares me far more than any spectre or twisted creature. Because that means someone here is a killer. The police will investigate thoroughly, I have no doubt, but well… given their track record in this matter I am not optimistic. There is something in these files, in these statements.” His gaze drifted to the stacks of statements and files. “I know that now, some deeper mystery. I think Gertrude Robinson found it, and I think that is why they killed her.

“Also. Some of my tapes have gone missing. Maybe it was Prentiss, but she seemed more interested in the written files, and the other tapes seem fine. There’s no sign of debris, or anything that would indicate they’ve been destroyed, but, in addition to the tape Martin lost earlier, the tapes for cases…” He checked his notes. “0161203, 8163103, 0020406, and 0090608 have all gone missing. I don’t know why these four specifically, but I cannot trust anyone. _Particularly_ not whoever is claiming to be Martin Blackwood.” His jaw set. “I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t know why they were pretending to be Martin. I do, however, know that whoever it may be, it wasn’t my assistant. So many questions, but no answers in sight.” He put his head in his hands. “I will figure out what’s going on. With Gertrude’s murder, with this... false Martin, and none of them can stop me. They’ll... they’ll have to kill me first.”


	3. Misdirection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of a shorter chapter. Gotta say I REALLY just want to skip to the last chapter because ive got some good stuff planned, but im being patient because if I wait, the payoff will be much more satisfying, right? But like, im REALLY excited for the last chapter. Im not sure how many chapters until then, mostly because while i have the events ploted out, idk how im going to split those events up, chapter-wise

Jon stared at the jar on his desk. The jar that contained the ashes of Jane Prentiss, if Jon believed what “Martin” said. And he didn’t particularly believe it.

Another thing he couldn’t believe was that he had just given a statement to the _Magnus Institute._ Really, it was almost laughable, given the countless hours he’d spent ridiculing those who came in to give their statements. He clicked on the tape recorder.

“Supplemental,” Jon whispered. “I don’t care about the tunnels, or the secrets they might hide.” He paused for a moment. “Well, that’s not strictly true, I suppose,” he amended. “I do have a burning curiosity as to what is down there, but my top priorities must be learning who killed Gertrude Robinson, and learning what happened to the _real_ Martin Blackwood. In regards to the former, I do not believe for a moment that it was a wall-moving spectre from the depths of the earth. No, far more likely it’s one of my colleagues. Elias is a prime suspect, but it could have been any of them.”

He sighed. “As for the _latter_ issue, I’m afraid that I haven’t been able to look into it very much, as _Martin_ , or rather, whoever is claiming to be him, has been taking time off, as has Tim. I suppose Tim taking time off is... for the best. Sasha, on the other hand, has been in to work. I... asked her to describe Martin for me.” He closed his eyes, remembering the way she’d looked at him like he was crazy. “She described the person who gave me a statement after Prentiss’s attack.” He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to remain at least _somewhat_ professional on tape. 

“I told everyone that the second tape recorder was lost in the attack. Having two means I can make two tapes from each recording. One containing the main statement and notes, which will be stored in the archive, and the other containing the statement, notes, and... these supplements, which will chronicle my own investigations into Gertrude’s death and Martin’s disappearance. These tapes will be hidden. If you’re hearing this, I assume you’re my replacement, following my death or disappearance, and have received instructions of some sort on where to find them. I have little more to add to this initial account, seeing as I have only recently returned to my position in full, and haven’t had much time to begin personal investigations.” Jon glanced at his door. “My statement was, of course, completely true, though I have deliberately overstated my interest in the tunnels. If my colleagues believe that to be my main focus, they may let their guard down. This level of paranoia is new to me, but I’m learning fast. Trust can get you killed.” He reached for the tape recorder. “End supplement.” 

******

It had been three weeks since the person who wasn’t Martin had returned to work. “Hello Jon,” Fake Martin said. He smiled kindly and gave a cheery little wave as he set down a stack of files. “How are you feeling?”

Jon glared at the stranger. “Who _are_ you?” 

Fake Martin sighed. “Jon, I don’t know why I have to tell you this. I’m Martin Blackwood. Really, are you _sure_ that you’re feeling alright?”

Jon grit his teeth. “Yes, _‘Martin,’_ I’m _quite_ sure.” 

Fake Martin frowned. “Then am I really _that_ forgettable?” He laughed a bit. Jon hated the way this person laughed, because it sounded Wrong. It was _almost_ like Martin’s laugh, but just a bit… _left,_ in a way. “I know that you don’t exactly _like_ me, but this is getting a bit ridiculous.”

Jon narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know _who_ you are, but it’s not Martin. You look different, you _sound_ different, and moreover, you are a _completely different person!”_ As he spoke, his voice became louder and angrier, until he was shouting at the imposter. 

Fake Martin’s grey eyes went wide in confusion. “Jon, you’re acting insane!” he said, a note of worry creeping into his voice. He took a step back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you need to stop.”

“You’re the one who needs to _stop,”_ Jon said angrily. “If this is a joke, it’s in bad taste.” Jon thought he saw something flicker across the face of the stranger in front of him– amusement, perhaps?– but it was gone before he could really see it.

“Jon,” the imposter said somewhat levelly, “it seems to me that _you’re_ the one who’s pulling some sort of misguided joke.”

The door creaked open and Jon’s assistants poked their heads in. “Hey boss?” asked Tim. “Everything all right in here?”

“Yeah, we heard shouting,” Sasha said, frowning. 

Jon took a deep breath. “This,” he said, pointing at the short, dark–haired man before him, “is _not_ Martin Blackwood.”

Tim’s eyebrows rose. “Ex _cuse_ me?”

Jon glared at Fake–Martin. “This isn’t Martin.”

Sasha’s frown deepened. “Sorry, I... don’t follow.”

Jon grabbed a blank sheet of paper. “He looks different, and he sounds different, he- he _is_ different!” He began to furiously scribble, cursing his lack of art skills. 

The tense quiet was oppressive and Jon was certain that behind his back, his assistants and the Other One were exchanging concerned looks. Sasha broke the silence, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

“Jon, that _is_ Martin,” she said gently. “What’s going on with you?”

“No no, that’s not what he looked like,” Jon muttered, shrugging off her hand as he tried to draw the _real_ Martin to the best of his ability. “He was really tall, taller than anybody else in the Institute, and he was, um, how did you put it Tim?” He snapped his fingers. “Right! Hug–shaped! You called him hug–shaped!”

Tim looked between Jon and the person who claimed to be Martin. “Boss, I don’t know-”

“His hair was curly!” Jon said, tapping the drawing of Martin. “And blond, it was blond! His eyes were green too!” 

Sasha and Tim were shaking their heads, and Jon knew that they didn’t believe him. “Jon,” Tim said firmly, “you need to chill the hell out.”

Jon shook his head. “Tim, this _isn’t_ Martin!” he insisted, a note of hysteria creeping into his voice. “Please, just listen to me!” 

Tim sighed. “Boss, I know that Prentiss and Gertrude shook you up a bit, and I don’t blame you for that. But _this?–_ ” he gestured between Jon and Fake-Martin, _“this_ is not okay.”

Jon’s mouth opened and closed as though trying to form words, but no sound came out. 

“Jon, just stop,” Sasha said, concern in her eyes. “This has been getting out of hand, and you need to _stop.”_

Jon sighed. “I-” He bit his tongue to keep from exploding at her. “Alright, but I know what I know.” 

Tim rolled his eyes. “Ugh. Whatever you say, _boss_. Come on, Martin. He’s paranoid, and he’s made it _quite_ clear to us that there’s nothing we can do to dissuade him.” He left, followed closely by Sasha who gave him a worried look. 

Fake Martin started to walk out, but stopped at the door. “I’m sorry that you feel that way,” he said, sounding earnest.

It might have just been his mind playing tricks on him, but as the imposter turned around, Jon could have sworn that he saw a smile creeping over the stranger’s face.


	4. Delivery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite what you may think from the chapter title, this has nothing to with Breekon & Hope

“You say you don’t remember the man’s name…” Jon prompted the statement giver, almost hoping this _wasn’t_ who he thought it was. Almost. 

Helen Richardson looked at the floor. “I… I think he told me, but I just, I…” She shook her head. 

“-it wasn’t “Michael,” was it?” Jon asked. He knew from the way her head snapped up that he’d been right on the money. 

“Yes! Michael! That was it!” Ms. Richardson said. Her voice took on an edge when she asked “do you _know_ him?”

“Maybe…” Jon said thoughtfully. It was just another piece in the 1000 piece puzzle that he didn’t know the shape of. “We’ll make some enquiries and get back to you, Miss Richardson. Thank you for your time.”

Ms. Richardson nodded, somewhat uneasily. “Right, well… I’ll just leave you to it, then.” She opened the door, and walked through. Jon winced at the squeakiness. He’d have to talk to Elias about fixing that.

“Sasha!” he yelled. After a moment, the door to his office opened and Sasha stuck her head in.

“Hey, did you need something?” she asked. 

“Yes, actually,” Jon said. “I– I’ve just had a statement from someone who claims they met your Michael.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Michael? As in, cemetery Michael?”

Jon nodded. “The very same.”

“Oh.” Sasha frowned, pushing her wire frame glasses up her face. “Well I haven’t seen him since, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Hmm.” Jon harrumphed. “What are you working on now?”

“Reorganizing the discredited section. It’s been a real mess since you got back,” Sasha said, giving him a look. 

Jon sighed. “That’s… that’s fair,” he said. “Well, when you’re done with that, I’d really like you working on this case.”

“Will do.” Sasha closed the door, and Jon leaned back in his chair. 

_One step forward,_ he thought with a heavy sigh, _eighteen steps back._ He shut his eyes.

“YOu KnOW, THeY’lL NeVEr SeE iT’S LiEs,” said a voice that bounced and echoed through Jon’s head, giving him the distinct certainty that he’d have a migraine later. “nOT LIke yOu cAN.” 

Jon’s eyes snapped open. “I- I- I’m sorry, I didn’t- can I help you?” he asked. “This place is off-limits.” 

“i dISaGreE.” The person standing behind Jon’s chair seemed Wrong, somehow. They were tall, with straw-coloured hair that fell to their shoulders in loose ringlets. They smiled a Cheshire grin that was far too wide. 

“Who let you in?” Jon asked, trying to gain some measure of control over the situation. 

“lEt?” The person laughed. It was a laugh that came from more than one throat, a fraction of a second out-of-sync with itself somehow. “i’M AfrAId tHat’s Not hOW tHIs wOrKs.”

Something clicked in his head, and Jon knew who he was talking to. “You’re him.” It wasn’t a question. 

The blond man nodded. “yES.”

“Michael.”

‘Michael’ paused. “tHAt _iS_ A reAL NAmE.”

“...are you here to kill me?” Jon asked hesitantly. 

Michael was silent for a minute. “nO.”

“Oh…” Jon couldn’t help but feel relieved. But there had to be _some_ reason he was here. “Why are–why are you here? Wh–”

Michael’s smile widened. “i AM sImPLy CoLlECtINg WHaT is mINe, ARCHivISt. tHe ONe wHo enTErEd My dOMaiN.”

“Who–” Jon’s eyes widened in realization. “…Miss Rich-ard-son? You own those hallways?

Michael raised his eyebrows in amusement. “WhAT A _fFFaSCInaTInG_ qUEStioN. DOeS yOUr HAnd In aNY WAy oWn YOUr sTOMaCH?”

Jon’s own stomach turned. “Ah, I–”

Michael’s smile became impossibly wide, only Jon wasn’t entirely sure it _was_ impossible. How wide did human mouths smile? “in ANy cASe, iT dOESn’t MaTtER: tHE WaNDEREr hAd A bRIEf resPITe, BuT iT’s oVEr nOW.”

Jon felt some small relief as he remembered that Miss Richardson had already left. “Well, you’re too late, sh-she’s gone!” His words didn’t sound as confident as he’d have hoped. 

Michael laughed that multi–throated laugh. “…yES… ah… DId yOU nOTIcE wHICh DOoR sHe lEFt ThrOUGh?” His laughter echoed under his speech.

“Yes,” Jon declared with confidence that cracked as he realized “wait–” 

And broke. “No-”

Before it crumbled into dust. “There was, there-”

Michael shook his head slowly. “ThERe HAs nEVEr bEEN A DOOr tHERe, ARChIvISt, yOUr mIND pLAyS tRIckS oN yOU…”

“Let her go!” Jon said. 

There was a short burst of laughter. “nO?”

“Get her back here!” Jon’s fists balled up, as though _punching_ Michael would do anything. 

“ArE yOU goINg To AtTACk Me?”

Still laughing, Michael stabbed a long, sharp finger into Jon’s hand. Jon cried out in pain.

Through the pain, Jon managed to ask “Who the hell are you!?”

Michael removed his finger. “i Am nOT a ‘WHo,’ ARCHIvISt, I aM A ‘whAT.’ A ‘wHO’ reQUIreA a dEGRee oF IDENtiTY I cAN’t eVER RetAIn.”

Jon clutched his hand. “So what, Michael isn’t your real name?” he asked through the stinging. 

Michael shook his head, looking almost pitying. “THErE iS No sUCh THInG aS A rEAl NAMe.”

“What are you _talking_ about?” Jon asked. He was confused, as usual. 

“i Am tALKiNG abOUt mYSeLf.” Michael tapped his own forehead. “iT’s NOt soMETHing i’M uSEd tO dOIng, So i’m SoRrY iF i’M NOt vERy GOOd At iT.” Jon didn’t think he sounded very sorry. 

“You decided to appear down here and… stab me anyway!” Jon tried (and failed) to keep the accusation from his voice.

Michael shrugged. “I wANtED tO taLK To yOU. I iNTERveNEd, tO sAVe yOU bEFOre. I– i’M iNTERestED iN WhAT hAPPenS nOW.”

“Yes, well, thank you for that, I suppose… And you still haven’t told me why you ‘intervened’ at all,” he huffed. 

Michael nodded. “i’m nORMalLY neUTRal, YEs. BuT tHe lOSs Of tHIS plACE WOUld havE unBALAnced tHE sTRUGglE toO eArLy. I’m kEEn To sEE hOw it prOGReSses.”

“You make it sound like there’s a… war,” Jon said, confusion and curiosity colouring his voice. 

“oH!” Michael giggled. “TheN I WilL sAy nOTHinG ElSe. wouLDN’t WIsh tO taRNISh yoUR iGNORancE prEMATurely.” He giggled again. “GoOODBye, ARCHiviST.” He turned away walking towards a wall. 

“This - wait–” Jon stood up quickly, his chair scraping against the floor. His hand brushed the chair. “Ah… owww…” he looked around, but Michael was nowhere to be seen. “M-Michael? Michael!?” He noticed that the tape recorder was still running, and reached for it. “Oh, uh, end recording.” He clicked it off.

  
  


******

  
  


Jon sighed and clicked on the tape recorder. “Supplemental. Michael’s visit last week has been playing on my mind. What struggle is he talking about and if there is one, what’s his stake in it? What even is he? Listening back over his visit, I am also struck by something that in the confusion of his arrival completely passed me by the first time. He said that they’d never be able to ‘see it’s lies.’” He let out a sigh. “Was he warning me about something? Or is Michael simply messing with my head, as indeed seemed to be the entire purpose of his visit?” Jon squeezed his eyes shut. _One step forward._

“On another note, I need to be subtler in my inquiries, as both my team and Elias have been taking note of them.” His fingernails dug into the desk as he remembered the ill–fated meeting.

_Eighteen steps back._

Elias called Jon up to his office, and when Jon poked his head through the door, Elias took a deep breath. “I don’t enjoy having to have these meetings, Jon, you know I don’t,” he said, tone reproachful. 

“Well, I’m sorry you’re compelled to,” Jon said curtly. “I assume you’ve had another complaint.” 

Elias nodded. “Yes. I did.”

Jon found himself rolling his eyes before he could stop himself. “Who from this time? Was Dr. Elliot offended I declined to take his apple?” He couldn’t hide the sarcasm in his voice, nor could he contain his venomous contempt as he asked, “was I too rude to _‘Michael?’”_

Elias’s face wrinkled in confusion. “What? Who’s Michael? No, it’s from your team. 

“What!” Jon mentally cursed himself; he thought he’d been subtler about his investigations.

“Martin and Tim both approached me. Apparently, you’ve been _spying_ on them,” Elias said.

“Spying on them? Of course not- No, it’s just... I’ve been… worried about their mental health following Prentiss’ attack, so I’ve been keeping a closer eye on them than usual.”

Elias raised an eyebrow. “Tim says you were watching his house, and Martin said you followed him home.”

“I- Well, that’s just not true,” Jon spluttered in protest.

“Well, what matters is your team thinks that it could be,” Elias retorted. “Look, I- I know finding Gertrude’s body hit you hard, I understand, but you need to leave this alone. It isn’t their mental health that’s under scrutiny right now.”

“...Fine,” Jon spat out after a moment. “Is that all?”  
“Yes,” Elias said. “Take care of yourself, hm?”

Jon sighed as he stood up and walked to the door. “Right.”

Jon spun in his chair. “I managed to record the exchange, but the problem still stands.” He put his main tape recorder in his drawer. “I’ve made almost no progress in learning what happened to Martin, but as far as Gertrude’s murderer is concerned Elias has moved to the top of my suspect list. End supplemental.”

He clicked off the tape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good, typing michaels lines took forever because I’d type them out first and then go back and put in random capitalization


	5. A Subtle Pause

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m getting highly excited. I predict either two or three more chapters, and then ill have finished my first full length fic, a feat I’ve yet to complete.

“Martin, when Prentiss attacked the institute, you said you’d been recording poetry on the tape recorders, right?”

Fake-Martin looked up from his work, brushing a strand of dark hair out of his eyes. “Um, yeah? Why’d you want to know?”

Jon pursed his lips. “Do you… still have them, by any chance?”

The false Martin’s face lit up. “I’m glad you’re interested in my poems,” he said. “Do you like Keats?”

Jon made a face. “Is _that_ who you draw your inspiration from?” 

Fake-Martin tilted his head. “Do you not… like… Keats’s style?”

“I can’t say that I do, _Martin._ ” He said the name through gritted teeth, trying to remind himself that you catch the most flies with honey.

“Oh.” Fake-Martin’s face fell. “Then I’m not sure you’d like my poetry very much.” His grey eyes met Jon’s, and once again, Jon was certain that he saw the briefest gleam of amusement inside them. “Besides,” he said disappointedly, “I’ve been re-recording them.”

“What, why?” Jon asked, feeling frustrated.

Fake-Martin looked down at his desk. “After Prentiss’s attacks, I couldn’t find any of my old poetry tapes, so I have to redo them.”

Jon dug his nails into the palms of his hands. “I see,” he said tightly. 

Fake-Martin smiled. “Yeah, I was disappointed too, but do you want to listen to the new recordings?” he asked.

Jon took a deep breath, trying to keep polite and calm. “No,” he said, failing to keep the ice completely from his tone as he said “I don’t want to.” He rolled his shoulders back and looked down his nose at the stranger, a feat he’d never have been able to accomplish with the _real_ Martin. “I need you to look into case 0052911.” 

Fake-Martin’s face went through a plethora of disappointed expressions. “I-” He looked down. “Yeah, sure. That’s a Hilltop Road statement, right?”

Jon nodded. “Yes.” And then, more to himself than to the stranger at Martin’s desk, “that house seems to pop up in quite a few statements, doesn’t it?”

“Did you say something?” Fake-Martin piped up. 

Jon shook his head. “Talking to myself. Anyways, get to work looking into that statement.” He opened the door to his office, plopping down in his spinny chair. He reached into his pocket and removed the tape recorder, clicking it off. He shut his eyes and spun around a few times. 

He was tired. He missed the rush of bogus statements from Halloween. None of them had any ground to them, but he’d felt _relaxed_. There hadn’t been any time to look into Gertrude or Martin, but he hadn’t had time to _worry_ about them either. 

He clicked on the tape recorder to make his observations about his conversation with Fake-Martin. “I’d hoped to perhaps find some stylistic difference between his old poetry and his new poetry, but seeing as how the tapes have disappeared, I have _no_ way of knowing whether the poetry in these new recordings have been changed to match. So, once again, I have _nothing.”_ He pressed his face into his desk, sighing. He lifted his face up. Still, it feels important somehow, even if I don’t know _why_.

“Speaking of disappearing tapes, I still haven’t located the tapes that went missing during Prentiss’s attack. None of the tapes went missing except for those statements, and apparently Martin’s _poetry,_ for some reason.” Jon chuckled. “Maybe Prentiss listened to Martin’s poetry and didn’t think it was very good.” He flicked the jar of ashes. “Did you like Keats’s style?” he asked. He was relieved when the jar of ashes gave him no response.

Jon tapped his fingers on the table. “Hrm. Why _those_ tapes? Prentiss seemed more focused on the written records than any of the tapes, but for some reason, _those_ tapes went missing. Do they have something in common?” he mused. He pulled out a piece of paper to write down a list of action items. “I’ll have to check on those statements, see what they were made in regards to. If memory serves, statement 0161203 is the statement Martin made after Prentiss put him under siege in his home. There’s no written record of it, so I can’t double check the details, but I do remember the gist of it.”

He wrote down the list of statements. “In regards to my _other_ investigation, Sasha and Tim have been avoiding me lately,” he said with a sigh. “Sasha caught me going through her desk, and even though I managed to come up with an excuse, I’m not sure she bought it completely. Still, I don’t understand why they’d be avoiding me, unless they have something to hide.” He spun around in his chair again. “Perhaps they know what I’m doing, and they’re trying to hide what they’ve done. I need to get more tapes from Basira, but it’s–” He pressed his forehead into his desk. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for! I think I’ll know it when I see it, but how can I be sure?” 

He sat up a bit straighter. “What if I already have all the parts of the puzzle, and I’m just scrambling for pieces that don’t exist?” He scratched at one of the worm scars. “What if there is no puzzle and I’m just going crazy?” The what–ifs spun around his head like a washing machine. 

He kicked the leg of his desk. “No, dammit, I _know_ Gertrude was murdered. I _know_ that it was someone who works at the institute. And I _know_ that regardless of what everyone else says, whoever keeps wearing his sweaters is _not_ Martin. I’m absolutely certain.”

  
  
  
  
  



	6. Hold For Laughs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter lads! I’m real real excited about that next chapter guys!! Might do An author notes chapter? How would you feel about that?

Jon was recording post-statement comments when Basira arrived with the rest of the tapes.

“Others who encountered it reported similar feelings of vertigo to those reported by Mr. Walker, but it also puts me in mind of the fate of Robert Kelly, the skydiver who fell for far longer than he–” He paused as the door swung and Basira walked in, two large cardboard boxes in her arms. “Oh!” He clicked off his main recorder. “Basira, what are you doing here? I thought–”

Basira’s tone was flat as she said “Here,” and dropped the boxes on his desk. 

He opened the flaps and stared at it’s contents for a moment before looking up at Basira. “Are these... are these the rest of the tapes?”

Basira nodded. “Yeah. As many of them as I could get.”

Jon shook his head in confusion. “I-I don’t understand. You said we were done, but...”

Basira huffed out a sigh through gritted teeth. “They’re covering it up.”

“They’re what?” Jon asked. 

“Altman’s death,” Basira said. Her fists balled up. “Said he was dirty. That he got stabbed in a botched _drug deal_.” She was evidently furious, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm down. 

Jon’s brow furrowed. “Wait.” He held up a hand. “So the operation you went on–”

“Doesn’t exist,” Basira finished. “I mean, I didn’t know Leo well, but... it’s just not right.” She shook her head. “And they seemed happy enough to get me out the door.”

Jon took that in for a moment, processing the information. “Okay, but I still don’t understand how any of this leads to me getting the tapes. I mean, I’m not ungrateful,” he said quickly. “I’m just... confused.”

Basira’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Well they're sure as hell not going to solve Gertrude’s murder, so I thought you might as well have them. Before… I don’t know, maybe I still had enough police in me not to just steal from Evidence, but now…”

“They’ve rather lost your loyalty,” Jon finished. “I thought they were watching you?”

Basira shook her head. “No, not since the Brodie op. Daisy knows about this, and she’s fine with it. There shouldn’t be any problem until the next time they check inventory, and even then it’s only if they can be bothered with the sectioned stuff. You should be fine.”

Jon shook his head in amazement. “I... I can’t thank you enough for this.”

“Never get me involved in any this, ever again, and it’ll be thanks enough, okay?”

Jon nodded. “Right, of course.” He removed the boxes from his desk. “Well, take care.”

“Right back at you,” Basira said, and walked out the door. 

Jon looked inside the boxes that was on top. There were _so_ _many_. “Right,” he said. “Now, where to start…”

******

Jon clicked on his supplemental recorder. “Ms. King made it rather clear to me that while us doing follow up on her statement would be _preferable,_ it is not necessary, and she won’t be able to see it until she returns from India.” He sighed and spun around in his chair. “I must admit, I’m rather grateful for this, as it will give me more time to look into Gertrude’s tapes.”

He stood up and walked over to the boxes, which he’d shoved into a corner and covered with boxes of written files. “The more I listen to the tapes, the more I think that Gertrude’s murder is less a question of _who_ did it, and more a question of _why.”_ He removed the written files from on top of the tapes.

“I mean, she’s _clearly_ more competent than I thought.” He paused, picking up one of the boxes and putting it in the middle of the floor. “And perhaps that was her intention? Act senile and incompetent as a sort of cover for what she was really doing.” He chuckled humorlessly. “Whatever that was.”

He picked up the second box, struggling to get a good grip on it. As he turned around, he stepped on a piece of paper, and fell forwards. “Ah!” he cried as both archivist and box tumbled to the floor with a thud. 

Several tapes tumbled out of the box he’d been holding. Jon cursed under his breath as he picked them up, looking at the labels in curiosity. Some of them had only numerical labels, while others had names like “ _Last Feast_ ,” “ _Unknowing(stop?)_ ,” and “ _Circus Victim._ ” 

Then Jon saw a label that made him freeze. 

_Changeling/Imposter._

“ _Oh_ ,” he whispered. “Well that’s… that could be relevant to my investigations with Martin.”

His hands shaking, Jon clicked off his recorder and put Gertrude’s tape in, and began to listen. 

There was a moment of tape whirring, before Gertrude’s no-nonsense voice cut over it. “Case 9941509 – Lucy Cooper. Incident occurred in Draycott, Somerset, August 1994. Victim’s name given as Rose Cooper. Statement given 15th of September 1994. Committed to tape 4th of November 1996. Gertrude Robinson recording. There is a stranger claiming to be my mother…”

As Jon listened to the recording, he could feel his blood turning to ice within his veins. He’d been _right_. 

And he _desperately_ wished he hadn’t been. 

Martin Blackwood– the _real_ one– was dead. 

By the time the tape had finished running and clicked off, Jon’s hands were shaking. He carefully removed Gertrude’s tape and placed his own in. “I… this tape was labeled ‘Changeling/Imposter,’ and I thought it might give me some useful insights into my investigation of the disappearance of Martin Blackwood, but I never imagined… I never imagined this.” He took a deep breath. 

Then a realization hit him like a truck. 

“I know what the missing tapes have in common.” 

He began furiously scribbling notes on a piece of paper. “All of them have the _real_ Martin Blackwood’s voice on them. His- his statement, places where he interrupted, any proof that he existed at all–” He began to speak faster and faster. “It all had to be disposed of, had to be hidden.” 

“I–” He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. “I need to find some way to kill it, and this ‘Adelard Dekker’ seems to be a good place to start.”

* * *

Jon finished recording the statement of Lawrence Moore. By the end, his hands were shaking violently. “I-I found this in the folder marked 9910602, where Gertrude’s tape had indicated I would find the statement of Dekker himself. There’s-there’s nothing else in the folder, but I think it tells me what I need to know. This thing, this ‘Not-Martin,’ it’s tied to the table somehow. It…” He sighed, putting his head in his hands. 

“I found the tapes,” he said. 

He clicked play on his other recorder, and Martin’s _real_ voice played back.

_“If you're that worried about it, it doesn't need to be an official statement. I just need a record of it.”_

“They were… they were in his desk,” Jon continued as he switched tapes. “And they were hidden, but if I’d looked more carefully…”

_“Oh god, sorry, sorry! I didn’t think you were in until later; it’s not even seven yet.”_

“I didn’t– god, wasn’t there anything I could have done?” He put in the tape from Prentiss’s attack and listened intently. 

_“Who’s there? Come out! If someone's playing a prank, it’s not safe here! This isn’t funny!”_

Then Martin screamed, and the tape’s audio became filled with distortion. 

_“T̷̗͓̲̬̼̫͉̾͜h̸̢̨̯̖̰̹̹̜̉͐̈́i̶̘̘̙̯͉̓́́͌̆s̴͚̟̫̗̅ ̵͓̝͎̮͇͐͋̒̆̅͑̽̕i̴͖̊̈s̵̨͔̱̓̚ń̴̖̻̇͝’̴̨̰̘̈́̆̔͂̀̄̕ͅṱ̷̼͂̾̈́͝͝ ̷̧̣̰͇̙̐̕f̷̮̓u̶̳̭̙̟̱͍̦͆̽͆̋̆̕͘ͅņ̶̛̩̣͓̟͚͉̈́̀̍͝n̶̯̱͌̀͑́̍̂͋ͅy̶̨͙̬͖̝̤̩͌͂͘͝,”_ Jon could barely make out. 

_“This isn’t funny,”_ laughed a voice that wasn’t Martin’s. 

Jon clicked off the recording. “It’s right, of course,” Jon said. “This _isn’t_ funny.”

He called Tim and Sasha down to his office. Tim looked annoyed, and Sasha looked concerned. 

“You wanted to see us?” Tim said curtly. 

“You look like death,” Sasha said.

“Yes, that’s… that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Jon said. He forced a cough. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

“Paranoia?” Tim asked. 

“No,” Jon said dryly. “Anyway, I don’t want to infect anyone, so I’m giving you the next two days off.”

They stared at him blankly. 

“What?” Tim asked after a moment. 

“It’s best if you stay home. Don’t want to catch whatever this is,” Jon explained. 

“I think that being sick means that _you’re_ supposed to stay home, not us,” Sasha said dubiously. 

“No!” Jon said, perhaps a bit too forcefully. “I mean, no. I have a lot of work to do as it is, and if I stay home, I’ll never catch up.” He made a show of straightening the papers on his desk. “Besides, we’ve all been under a lot of pressure lately. Mostly because of me, but… we could all use a break, yes?”

Sasha raised her eyebrows, but Tim’s face was stony and cold. 

_“‘Mostly?’”_ Tim asked. “That’s certainly a word.”

Jon held up his hands. “Tim, I’m- I’m sorry, but you have to agree, you both _could_ use some time off, right?”

“Because you’re _ill.”_

Jon hesitated. “Yes.”

Tim’s demeanor changed completely. A fake smile plastered onto his face. “Good idea. See you Monday, _boss._ ” He walked out, with Sasha following uncertainly behind. 

Jon breathed a sigh of relief. 

******

Jon had managed to sneak an axe into artifact storage. As he readied himself to destroy the table, he was careful not to look at it except to align himself so that swinging an axe would hit it. “I don’t know if destroying this thing will _kill_ Not-Martin, but I’m pretty sure that it’s gonna hurt like hell.” 

He shut his eyes, and he swung. There was the sound of wood splintering, and he felt shards of wood flying into his skin. He kept swinging until he was certain that there was no web pattern for him to get caught in. He opened his eyes.

“It’s... hollow,” he noted. “Just dust and cobwebs.”

Jon heard a familiar bouncing laugh, and felt his heart sink. “wElL NoW ThAT wAS vERy StuPiD,” Michael said. 

Jon turned around and glared at him. “What are you talking about?” He asked. 

“YoU kNOw, THerE’s nO otHEr wAy OuT oF HeRE,” Michael said with a laugh. 

Jon frowned. “What do you-”

Michael wagged a long, thin finger in mock disapproval. “YOu Won’T HaVE tIMe To EsCApE bEFoRe iT fINdS yOU.”

Jon’s mind tried to put pieces together. “The… the… Not-Martin?” He shook his head in confusion. “No, but I destroyed the table-”

“ThE onE THaT wAs BInDiNG it?” Michael cut in with a laugh. “yeS!”

Jon’s blood went icy as Michael’s words sunk in. “What?” 

“Joooon?” From the entrance to Artifact Storage, Jon heard Not-Martin’s lilting voice. Except it wasn’t _only_ Not-Martin’s voice. It was hundreds of voices, all speaking at once, all sounding a bit off, none sounding quite human.

Jon whirled around, trying to see the monster. He felt a heavy hand with long, thin fingers come to rest on his shoulder. “yOu KNoW, ArcHIvIsT,” Michael said in a singsong voice, “iT SeEms TO Me tHAt YoU NeeD a dOoR, hM?”

Jon shook his head vehemently. “No, no, I need-”

“Jooooonnn.” Closer this time. 

“Fuck!” Jon turned around and saw a yellow door swinging open. 

Michael’s laugh was getting louder, Not-Martin’s voice was getting closer, and Jon was trapped with only one way out. 

He caught a brief glimpse of the creature, all long grey limbs with a sharp-toothed mouth that spoke with a dozen voices stolen from nobody, and he ducked inside the yellow door, slamming the door behind him.

  
  
  



	7. Punchline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The last chapter! Ive been looking forward to writing this chapter ever since i finished chapter one. All the chapter titles (except chapter one) were based on parts of a joke, and ive always known I wanted the last chapter to be called punchline. So here it is! enjoy!!

Jon clutched the tape recorder as he walked quickly through the tunnels. “Damn. Damn damn damn damn _DAMN!”_ He punched a wall. “Ow.” He rubbed his knuckles. “I-I took Michael’s door. It was that or face that… that _thing_ , and I don’t think I can do that. Michael opened a door into the tunnels. The tunnels. I must say, it’s not exactly the escape I was hoping for. I can hardly say I’m surprised, this must be his idea of a sick joke. Still, it is…” He was breathing heavily. “It is a head start, I suppose. But I have no idea where in the tunnels I am.” He realized that he had another problem. “Or how far down I am, _damn it all!”_

He resisted the urge to kick a wall. He might need to use his feet to run. “At least he didn’t leave me trapped in some corridor hellmaze.” He chuckled. “Well, a _different_ corridor hell maze, at least.”

He walked for a while. He had no means of marking his way, no torch, and no idea where he was going. “So I suppose I just... I just wait for now?” He chuckled humourlessly. “I’m not sure what else I _can_ do. I don't think it’s going to just give up, and I can’t risk attracting its attention. It might already be down here with me. I need to stay quiet.”

He walked for a while. “God, I’m an idiot, aren’t I? Smash the table, kill the monster? How could I be so _stupid?_ It was a lazy, sloppy assumption. Of _course_ the table was binding it. The table is a _web_ , not a fractal. Martin _said_ that in the recording from Prentiss’s attack!” He took a deep breath, accidentally inhaling some cobwebs in the process. After hacking and coughing furiously, he felt somewhat calmer with himself. 

“The thing was caught in some sort of a web, and I…” He shut his eyes and sat down, his back to the wall. “All the pieces of the puzzle were there. And I just... I couldn’t see it.”

He opened his eyes. He didn’t have a torch, he didn’t have food, and he didn’t have water. He needed to get back to the surface. 

“But _how?”_ he wondered aloud. 

_“Joooooon…”_ Jon sat bolt upright at the Not-Martin’s voice. 

“ _Shit,_ ” he cursed. 

He stood up quickly. He had to run, had to hide, had to get away from the creature that would kill him and replace him in the minds of all.

He began to run. His shoes weren’t running shoes but damn it, they’d have to be enough. He could hear water dripping around him, saw a set of stairs, and ran down it. At the bottom, he paused for a moment, trying to catch his breath. His eyes drifted to a metal pipe, laying on the damp stone floor, and he picked it up, feeling it’s weight in his hands. It was heavy and awkward in his hands, but it brought him some small amount of comfort. 

He began walking, a bit more quietly. He clicked the tape recorder back on. 

“I- I found a staircase, and I went down it. Didn’t see any arrows though.” He chuckled quietly. “Is that good, is it bad, does it matter?” He hit the pipe against the wall. “I’ve got a makeshift weapon, even if I don’t know how much good it’ll do for me. It’s a bit unwieldy as far as weapons go, but I feel a bit safer carrying it.”

“Joooooon… come out, Jon,” the Not-Martin said. It sounded far away, but frankly, the fact that Jon could hear its voice meant it was too close. He ducked into a little alcove, clutching the pipe tightly. 

“Come on, Jon, it’s me, _Martin_.” It laughed inhumanly. “No, Jon, I’m aware you’ve known about me since the beginning. It’s been great fun watching you _scramble_ , but I think our little _joke_ is at an end.” It laughed again. “You know Jon, I’m going to _wear_ you. I’m going to kill you, and I’m going to erase you. Everything you are, everything you ever were… everything will be gone. Everything will be _me._ ” It laughed. “And yes Jon, it will _hurt_. It hurt Martin, it hurt Graham, and it will _hurt you too_.” 

“Shut up!” Jon yelled without thinking. He clapped a hand over his mouth, silently cursing. 

“So _that’s_ where you are.” The Not-Martin sounded much closer.

Jon ran again, taking random turns, going up and down sets of stairs.

It didn’t matter. 

No matter how fast he ran, when he stopped, he could hear the twisted parody of Martin’s voice taunting him.

“Come on Jon, just come out,” it said. Jon could hear its footsteps, so he ducked around a corner and pressed his back to the wall. “How about I tell you a story? _My_ story. And maybe I’ll tell you _Martin’s_ story as well, we’ll see how it goes. How does that sound?”

Jon squeezed his eyes shut. 

“We can call them statements, if that’ll make it easier for you.” It laughed again, and Jon’s grip tightened on the pipe. “Once upon a time, there was a monster, only nobody ever knew it. Sometimes, somebody _would_ recognize it, and they’d get scared, and then the monster was happy. Then, a _bad_ man trapped the monster in a table of webs, and it had to get its friends to take it where it needed to go, so it could still scare people.”

Jon edged further down the wall. 

“Then, its friends took it to steal secrets from the stronghold of its enemy, who had the biggest eye of all, and it was sad because it could only scare one person, until one day, an arrogant, foolish little man cut through the webs, and it was free to scare whoever it wanted.”

Jon tried holding his breath, although he was certain that the thing could hear his heartbeat. 

“I really _must_ thank you, Jon. I never dared to hope you would free me. I must admit, the way you kept saying that this was a misguided _joke_ was rather amusing. You humans always seem to assume that everything is a joke that you’re on the receiving end of. And I suppose that, in a way, you were right. It’s _such_ a pity that I was the only one in on the joke, but sometimes, that’s just how life is, isn’t it? Now, where was I?”

Jon heard what sounded like a clap, but the hands that made it didn’t sound human. 

“Oh of _course_ , I was going to tell you about _Martin,”_ it said cheerfully. “Why didn’t you remind me?”

Jon squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m so sorry Martin. Tim. Sasha,” he whispered. 

“Martin thought it was a joke too,” it continued. “He thought it was a joke, right up until I took him.” It paused. “Jon, how would you like to know a little secret about me? You’d be the only person ever to hear this, even if you are about to die,” it said with a chuckle. 

Jon couldn’t help but be curious, even if he desperately wished he weren’t. 

“When I _take_ a person, I take everything they are, and it becomes a part of me. I change them, add things, take things out, but I know the truth. I know everything there is to know about Martin. He was so much smarter than anybody gave him credit for. Especially you. I can’t fathom why he loved you when you treated him with such _cruelty._ ”

Jon’s eyes went wide and he smothered a cough. 

“Oh yes, Jon, Martin was in love with you. He wasn’t even that good at _hiding_ it. You were just too wrapped up in your own head to see what was right in front of your nose.” 

Jon felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. Were they tears of regret? Fear? Some combination of the two? “I’m so, so sorry, Martin,” he whispered. “Tim, Sasha, if you ever hear this, get as far away from the institute as possible, please–”

The Not-Martin stuck its head around the corner. “Found you,” it said with a hideous smile. Its limbs were too long, and it still wore the face of Fake-Martin, but it was all wrong. Its dull grey eyes were sunken into a sickly pale face that was long. Its mouth was twisted into a horrible smile that contained far too many teeth that were far too sharp. 

“No, please don’t-” Jon choked out.

“It’s nothing _personal,_ Jon,” the thing said. “This has been great fun, really, it has, but our little joke has been going on for quite some time now, and I rather think it’s time for me to tell you the punchline.”

Jon gurgled a strangled cry and shut his eyes. “Please, I-”

He heard what sounded like stone shifting and the creature screamed. Then there was silence. Jon cracked open his eyes. 

The Not-Them was gone without a trace. “Wh-what happened?” he whispered, collapsing to his knees in both relief and sadness the same. 

“Hello, Mr. Sims,” a male voice said. 

“Who’s there?” Jon asked, gripping the pipe tightly in his hands.

An elderly man stepped into view. “I believe we need to talk.”

Jon stood up, brandishing the metal pipe. “Who _are_ you?” 

The man sighed. “Fine. My name is Jurgen Leitner. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so glad you all stuck with me long enough to finish this story, which is not a feat I’ve ever accomplished before. I want to thank all the people who left comments, those who left kudos, and to those of you who read long enough to be reading this note. I loved writing this fic, and I hope you enjoyed reading it!! Thank you!


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